


The Melody of the Broken

by aubbieday



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Autistic Sherlock, Disability, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-15
Updated: 2013-04-15
Packaged: 2017-12-08 14:22:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/762336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aubbieday/pseuds/aubbieday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock gets an unexpected visit from Siger, who says he’s going to try and help Sherlock with his ‘problem.’ By blood, Siger is Sherlock’s father, although he and Sherlock haven’t had any kind of relationship before.  At least one that Sherlock has felt comfortable telling John about. It is clear that Sherlock and Siger have been fine this way; however, it is also relevant that Sherlock wants his father’s approval and maybe even some kind of relationship with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Melody of the Broken

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic! So please, let me know what you think!

It was drizzling steadily. It had been since last Sunday. The flat felt clammy, while a thick smell of mold had been curling around its corners the last few days. John had confirmed with Sherlock that the stench was in no way associated with any of Sherlock’s experiments before confronting Mrs. Hudson about the matter. This lead to a search throughout the flat for the source, which eventually, with help of a flashlight, they discovered to be cumulating behind the stove. That had been Saturday. Today was Wednesday. The rain hadn’t ceased, and neither John nor Sherlock had done anything regarding the damp. The odor was there, but they’d both grown accustomed to it.

John had come home from work- another dull, seemingly pointless day filled with snotty nosed children and overly anxious mothers. He sat comfortably on the couch, tongue fiddling against the inside of his cheek, gently massaging the knuckles of his fingers before finding a sudden, however slight, interest in one of Sherlock’s many books that lay on the coffee table before him. He picked it up. _Handbook of Infant, Toddler, and Preschool Mental Health Assessment._ John skimmed the small, white book briefly, before catching eye and reading a chance paragraph. He thumbed through, casually skimming the pages.  A few minutes later, Sherlock quietly entered the room clad in his pajamas and robe.

Without any formal greeting, Sherlock went to stand by the window, gently tapping at the cool surface with his knuckle as he watched rain droplets creep down the glass, stopping to pool at the bottom of the frame. John glanced up when Sherlock entered, but just as quickly back down at the handbook.

“Hi,” John mumbled, keeping his eyes on his reading, even though he was finding most of the information useless.

Sherlock did not reply, but continued to stare out the window, blinking slowly as he observed the activities of the people on the street below him. His white-blue, nearly grey eyes trailed slowly as a small boy and an older man, presumably the father, walked hand in hand beneath an umbrella down the wet sidewalk. Once they were out of sight, Sherlock picked a piece of lint off his robe before opening John’s laptop where it lay on the desk. John had given up on keeping Sherlock from using it, so Sherlock effortlessly typed the password.

“Anything new?” John asked without looking up, turning a page.

“No.” Sherlock answered firmly, face suddenly lit up by the light from the screen. He stood, balancing the laptop on one arm against his chest as he moved his fingers over the track-pad. “Nothing.” Sherlock’s tone was harsh, though mixed with something that sounded close to fatigue. He closed the laptop a few minutes later, setting it back on the desk before finally looking at John. His eyes narrowed and he bit his lip.

“Why are you reading that? It’s _mine_.” Sherlock snapped, hastening to John and snatching up the book. He blinked a few times, clearly embarrassed by his own outburst. Sherlock crossed his arms, still holding the book. “It has...important notes, marked pages..." he mumbled nervously, turning quickly and placing the book high on its shelf.

“Just because it was there?” John answered cautiously, though fairly annoyed at Sherlock’s behavior. He raised his palms out as a sign of defeat. “That’s all.” He said sarcastically, moving to stand up. “Goodness,” he scoffed dryly as he passed the detective, going to the fridge in an attempt to dig something out for supper.

Sherlock watched John from the living room, leaning ever so slightly against the back of John’s chair, arms crossed. He huffed deeply, the stretch of mold making him more irksome.

“When are you going to do anything about that damp?” Sherlock spit, looking at the stove. “Surely I’m not the only one who’s noticed the smell has gotten worse,” he added bitterly.

John turned his head to look at Sherlock, back slightly curved from his fruitless expedition into the fridge.

“Um, excuse me, but who said it was my job to do anything about it? You’re the one who’s here all day,” John reminded, turning and placing his hands on his hips. “You might actually recognize the fact that we need food someday, too,” he muttered, closing the fridge door and shaking his head in exasperation. John eyed up the counter, noting the seemingly endless stacks of dirty dishes and silverware that flooded their small sink. Next to them on the counter were plates of Sherlock’s unfinished meals, covered in food that was now starting to smell. John wrinkled his nose, wondering if it was the damp or the contents of the plates that were filling the air with stench.

It was clear to Sherlock that John was aggravated at his, as it would appear, somewhat lazy lifestyle when he wasn't occupied by any cases. Sherlock cleared his throat and looked stubbornly away when John averted his gaze from the plates by the sink to Sherlock.

“Does it ever occur to you, Sherlock, that while I’m at work, and you’re at home, to maybe, _maybe_ , get some kind of cleaning done?” John scolded. “We both live here, you know. Honestly, Sherlock. I don’t know who would do the cleaning up if I weren’t here.” He noted aloud, shaking his head. “You just don’t take care of things!” He added, his voice slightly raised.

Sherlock breathed deeply, finally looking John in the eye.

“You know that’s not true, John,” Sherlock defended himself. “Just because I don’t clean doesn’t mean I’m inadequate to take care of things.” He replied cooly. “I notice, however, I have better things to occupy my time with while you’re away. Lack of a case doesn’t mean I’m just sitting around idle.” Sherlock hissed, only becoming more annoyed because he knew he wasn't being completely honest. He’d _tried_ to do something productive; however, his and John’s ideas of productivity were quite different. Between checking his website every ten to fifteen minutes, he’d tried every method he could think of to occupy himself. He’d tried to re-read some of his books to brush up on certain subjects- but after about an hour that had become incredibly dull. Sherlock had then read through a few experimental procedures he’d thought of in the past and copied but hadn't tried yet. When he did attempt them, he found all but one turned out as he’d expected. After playing with the formula a bit, he’d figured out the problem and easily fixed it. After that those, and many other pointless distractions, Sherlock had eventually resorted to watching the telly shows that John liked.  However, like his other attempts, that only lasted so long.

That had been Sherlock's second day without a case, and he’d been without any for about a week. To be honest, he hadn’t noticed the dirty dishes in the sink, even though he'd walked by them numerous times. Sherlock had noticed important things that morning such as that John hadn’t been sleeping well lately, along with the fact that he was most likely lacking vitamin D in his diet- but not the dishes. If he’d noticed how upset their presence seemed to make John, maybe he _would_ have done them.

“I’m very busy,” Sherlock stated, crossing his arms in defiance.

“Right, okay, Sherlock,” John mocked, nodding. “I’m sure.”

Sherlock was about to give a heated reply when he and John heard a light knock at the door. Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes before reluctantly heading over to open it. He pulled the door open abruptly, aggravated at whoever it was for interrupting he and John’s argument. However, once the door was opened, Sherlock said nothing. He blinked a few times, a pair of unfamiliar, yet recognizable blue eyes staring back at him. The eyes were cool- hard and unblinking. Sherlock remained silent a few moments, nostrils flared slightly in his initial shock, but masking that shock well. John, who had been waiting in the kitchen for some kind of conversation to cue him on who was at their door, had moved suddenly into the living room and was now standing a few feet behind Sherlock.

“Siger,” Sherlock finally greeted as though by force. His voice remained distant and uninterested, though his his lit up for a second. But the somewhat hopeful expression died away the more Sherlock stared - and was stared at. He did not extend an invitation for the man to come in, but let his hand leave the handle as he crossed his arms.

John took a good look at the stranger in the hallway. He was slim, tall, tand broad in the shoulders. His hair showed signs of once being a light brown- but was now salted through with grey - his waves sticking tightly to the sides of his head. The stranger’s eyes were deep blue and almond shaped, small wrinkles surrounding them.  John cleared his throat.

“John,” Sherlock said suddenly, without turning back to look at his confused flat-mate. “This is Siger. My _father_.” He said the word as if it tasted bitter, licking the ends of his lips as if to relieve them from the sting they caused. “Is there any _particular_ reason you’re here, or have you just come around for a nice little father-son chat?” Sherlock asked, leaning against the frame of the door. The man smiled icily, barely moving the corners of his mouth.

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” He asked after a moment, raising an eyebrow disapprovingly. He looked down, adjusted his jacket, then looked back up again. “Well, Sherlock?” He asked cooly, his glance hard.

Without a word, Sherlock moved quickly from the door, allowing his father to enter. John cleared his throat again, extending his hand.

“John Watson,” he forced a smile, feeling Siger’s clammy, long fingers beneath his own rough skin.

“Siger,” the man replied, his own smile of the same authenticity of John’s. He released John’s hand quickly before turning to Sherlock who was still standing, somewhat reserved, by the open door.  Sherlock fiddled with the belt of his robe, keeping his eyes downcast.

“Well, you can shut the door, Sherlock.” Siger urged impatiently. “Don’t stand there looking stupid- you’re letting the cold in. Surely this place is hard to heat, anyways,” he noted, looking disdainfully about at the tumultuous state of the flat and sniffing.

Given Sherlock's already highly irritatable mood, John braced himself for a boorish reply; however, to his surprise, Sherlock jumped to close the door on his father's order, slamming it a little harder than intended. He blushed lightly before clearing his throat and looking with sudden interest back to the window again. Sherlock scurried over to it, securing his bathrobe around his lank form with the belt.

“Would you like something to drink?” John asked quietly after an uncomfortable pause. “I’d offer you something to eat,” he added. “But, uh...” he looked in Sherlock’s direction. “Not much to eat here at the moment, I’m afraid.”

“Tea?” Siger asked, seating himself comfortably in Sherlock’s usual chair and resting his feet on the ottoman before him. John nodded, heading quickly into the kitchen where he began rummaging frantically for a clean mug. He had no idea what to say to Siger, and in fact, had never heard neither Sherlock nor Mycroft speak of him even once. John coughed and cleared his throat to fill the silence, but that did little good. Siger sniffed.

“Why, _exactly,_ are you here?” Sherlock turned suddenly from the bleak window, finding to his aggravation that Siger had placed himself in Sherlock’s chair. Siger didn’t bother to turn.

“Goodness, Sherlock,” he chastised, shaking his head. “I haven’t seen you in what, five years?” He asked. “You _are_ my son.”

Sherlock’s eyes softened lightly, but he looked away and back out the window.

“Yes, at Cousin Christopher's wedding. So nice of you to say hello to me at the reception by the sandwich table. Such a _special_ memory.” Sherlock recalled sarcastically, watching as several raindrops stayed stuck where they were, rather than drizzling like the rest. He tapped softly against the glass, helping them along their way. “And before that it had been what? Seven years?”

“I’m a busy man, Sherlock,” Siger replied, unaffected by Sherlock’s jibes.

“Your absence in my and Mycroft’s lives has made little difference to us.” Sherlock stated, once again finding interest in the people on the street below him. “Personally it has been quite preferred.”

Siger shifted in his chair.

“I’m glad we understand one another.”

Sherlock said nothing.

John listened intently from the kitchen, pretending to be too preoccupied by their tea to have heard anything. He felt uneasy being around for this unexpected airing of family grievances - especially any that revloved around Sherlock. John prepared the tea slowly, knowing the more time he spent in the kitchen, the less time he’d have to spend trying to make conversation with Siger. He reminded John strongly of Mycroft. He was slightly shorter than Sherlock, though still tall; however, a bit wider than Sherlock in the shoulders. His mannerisms were cool - almost menacing, and they made John uncomfortable.

“Hurry along, John!” Sherlock hissed suddenly, turning and blinking rapidly and nearly tripping as he made his way into the kitchen and through to his bedroom - the usual fluidity of his movements lost.

“Oh, not even a biscuit?” Siger asked playfully, even though his disproval was evident when John finally handed him his tea.

“Nope, sorry.” John bristled, seating himself opposite Siger and holding the warm mug between his palms. “Sherlock was supposed to do the shopping this week...” he said, eyeing Sherlock as he entered the room, a small pile of notebooks in his hands. He plopped himself on the couch and began scribbling furiously in one of them. Siger eyed his son, lingering a dry eye over him before taking a sip of his tea.

“He’s always been a forgetful one,” Siger replied, sighing. “It’s good he has you,” he said carelessly to John. “Sherlock could never seem to take care of himself...” Siger trailed off. John knew the words Siger spoke were more of a jibe at Sherlock than a compliment toward himself.

Sherlock’s head shot up from what he was writing, but he looked down at the floor rather than at the two men opposite him. John murmured awkwardly is response to Siger, feeling that he’d accidentally opened a private door that he now wanted to close.

“I mean, look at him,” Siger laughed dryly. “Hasn’t even changed out of his pajamas...”

“You're aware that I’m a consulting detective, of course.” Sherlock stated suddenly, looking up “That’s my job, as you know. And right now, I don’t have a case. But I do work.” He hissed.

“Oh- right, of course,” Siger nodded casually, taking another sip of tea. “I thought I’d heard something about what you did for a living. Consulting detective...” he said aloud to himself.

Sherlock’s hand stopped and he slowly looked up again.

“I-I thought...surely you must read my website?” Sherlock blinked, scratching behind his ear. “Or- or John’s blog?” He asked quickly.

“Didn’t even know you had a website. ” Siger stated, setting his empty mug down on the table beside him. “Or a blog," he added, looking at John and shrugging. "Could be interesting enough though.”

“The Science of Deduction...” Sherlock swallowed. “....is my webside. I could show it to you. John’s laptop is just right there. It’s got all my information- or, actually, I could show you John’s blog. That explains in fuller what we do, even though I don’t approve of everything he puts there. But it’s still quite interesting. I even -”

“Not now,” Siger interrupted. John’s eyes flashed to Sherlock, who was now silent, a faint pink rising to his cheeks.

“Of course,” Sherlock replied quietly, looking back down to his paper.

John was begining to feel very uncomtorable, as he'd predicted he would.  He wasn't used to seeing Sherlock like this.  Surely Sherlock could see Siger wasn’t truly interested in what Sherlock did - if he was, he would have known by now! Sherlock was normally so confidant towards people who attempted to undermine him. It was clear that whenever Sherlock Holmes was in the room, he was the _best_ person in the room. However, at the moment, Sherlock was barely even making any effort to combat his father’s snide comments and remarks. The detective just sat there, and as John watched him, he noticed that Sherlock wasn’t writing anything, but from the movements of his hand appeared to be drawing a never ending spiral across his notebook.

“What do you do, John?” Siger asked, folding his hands and directing his attention to John with a small smile.

 “I’m a doctor,” John sighed, finishing his last sip of tea. “An army doctor, actually. However, right now I’m working here at the surgery.” He cut his story short, not wanting to go into detail about his past services in Afghanistan. He rubbed subconsciously at his shoulder.

“Ah, really?” Siger asked, his small smile playing out wider across his face. “Well, that’s a _proper_ job.  Very noble too.” He stated, side glancing at Sherlock who was pointedly looking down at his paper. “Make good money, I assume?”

“Oh- well, I mean, it’s alright.” John scratched the back of his neck and looked at the floor.

“And what about you, Sherlock? Do you make any kind of money from your job?” Siger asked, directing his attention to the couch again. “Or are you still borowing from Mycroft?”

“I don’t work from incentive,” Sherlock said quietly without looking up.

“Ah. Of course not. Didn’t expect you to make any sorts of reasonable choices. Of course not, of course not...” Siger trailed off, shaking his head. “No matter what I tried to teach him,” he added, speaking to John as if Sherlock weren't present. “His _kind_ just don’t  want to learn. They think they know everything.” He scoffed.

John said nothing.

“I’ll be in town for a couple more weeks. I’m not staying too far from here,” Siger announced, standing and brushing off his pants. “I’ll probably be around again,” he stated. “I’ve decided that while I’m here I might try to help you out, Sherlock.” He said decidedly as he stood in the doorway to leave.

“I don’t need your help,” Sherlock breathed, looking up timidly. “I’m fine. We’re fine.”

Siger raised an eyebrow, looking with a mixture of loathing and pity down at his son.

“Obviously not.”

The door clicked and Siger’s slow, loud footsteps were heard as he headed down the stairs. Sherlock walked to the window, watching as his father advanced down the street and out of view.

“I can't see why you never mentioned him,” John said dryly, standing up and stretching. “Cheery bastard,” he huffed bitterly, taking he and Siger’s empty mugs into the kitchen. John could tell something about his father’s sudden appearance had unsettled Sherlock, so he decided not to say anything else about it. Instead, he rolled up his sleeves and began separating the dirty dishes into different piles to be washed.

 A few minutes later, Sherlock averted his gaze from the rain out the window to his violin on the floor. He picked it up shakily, running his long fingers over the smooth, familiar wood before placing his chin on its rest. He ran the bow lightly over the strings, letting them quietly sing out to him as he did so. Yet, instead of playing anything else, he simply placed the instrument back onto the floor.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock repeated, coursing briskly through the kitchen and into his bedroom.

The door shut.

John heard the lock click.

He saw no more of Sherlock that evening.


End file.
